


The Sweetest Fruit

by LadyRoxie



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fruity sexytimes?, Post Season 3 Finale, UST to RST, fluffy smut?, jack-of-all-trades, sexy fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRoxie/pseuds/LadyRoxie
Summary: A plump, ripe peach turns out to be all the excuse Phryne and Jack need.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, eep. I couldn't get this lovely sexy image out of my head, and wanted to try to write it, which was a slight departure for me, as I seem to be somewhat addicted to angsty Phrack. Here goes? Kinda a 9 1/2 weeks, MFMM style, with fruit.

Phryne Fisher was contemplating breaking and entering. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, and normally there wasn't much debate. This time, however, the door in question belonged to one Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and this gave her pause. Though honestly, she thought, if he hadn't wanted her to consider this in the first place, he jolly well should have made himself more available in the two weeks since her return from England. 

She cocked her head slightly in concession here; to be fair, Jack had been woefully overworked since she came home; a snarling case involving rival gangs and opium smuggling had consumed every waking hour he'd had in a month, not to mention most of the hours he ought to have been sleeping. He had managed to put in a maddeningly brief appearance at her welcome home party, but was forced to return to the station after only an hour. It was, as it turned out, just enough time for them to realize the smouldering chemistry that had glowed warm leading up to a kiss in an airfield was now primed to ignite. 

Unsurprisingly, it turned out that several phone calls, two missed dinners, and three basket-lunches brought round the station had been – agonizingly – insufficient to set it alight.

So when she had awoken this morning (well, nearly still morning) to a message from Jack via Mr. Butler that he would absolutely be able to join her for dinner tonight, she had been delighted. So delighted, in fact, that she'd telephoned the station to tell him to come as early as possible. After all, they had a lot of time to make up for, and she had a valise of particularly lethal French lingerie that was frankly not going to wear itself. 

“What do you mean, 'He's not working today', Hugh?” she had said into the phone, the slight suspicion in her lilting voice making Hugh Collins' palms moister than usual.

“Erm, well Miss, it's just that it was a long night, what with the raid, and the bookings and preliminary interrogations lasting until nearly morning, so the Deputy Commissioner told the Inspector to take the day off. Today, that is. And tonight. A whole day, I mean. Off.” 

“I see....” Hugh could have sworn he could see wheels turning in her head as she paused, and he reflexively bit his lip, grateful for the distance between the station and St. Kilda's. 

“Well, no problem, Hugh,” she sang, “I'm sure I can work with that. Thank you!” As he replaced the receiver on the cradle, Hugh was also grateful Miss Fisher hadn't chosen to share her intentions with him; he'd long ago come to feel that plausible deniability was important when it came to Miss Fisher's plans regarding his boss.

All of which is how she came to find herself, midway through a gloriously sunny late summer afternoon, standing on the verandah of Jack's neat white cottage, picnic hamper in one hand, lock picks in the other. 

The police motor car was in the drive, so she was fairly sure Jack was home, but peering through the lace curtain that veiled the door's small window she couldn't make out any light or movement.

 _I suppose,_ she thought suddenly, _I could knock..._

When three firm raps didn't yield a response, she flipped open the brass mail slot, lowering her sunglasses to the tip of her nose to peer into the dim hallway beyond. Perhaps he was still sleeping?

“Jack?” she called. “Are you home? It's me... and lunch!” She knocked again, louder, before deciding it was looking good for the lock picks.

She had just set the basket down on the coir mat when she heard Jack's voice calling from around the back of the house.

“Miss Fisher? Is that you?”

“Yes, Jack? Are you outside?”

“I am,” he called. “Come round the back, the gate's not locked.”

Phryne collected the hamper, remembering at the last minute to stow her lock picks discretely in her handbag, and found her way through the gravel alley between the houses to the half-gate that lead to Jack's back garden. She swung through the gate, then stopped short as she took in the scene in front of her. 

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was himself up a short step-ladder, his top-half mostly hidden by the foliage of a beautiful and heavily laden peach tree. He had swapped his wool trousers for a pair of well-worn tan moleskin ones, and Phryne couldn't help noticing how snugly they fit his muscular thighs and an arse that had to rate in at least the top three she'd ever seen. 

“Why Jack, you are indeed a never-ending source of mystery! An orchardist, as well?” Phryne teased as she closed the gate behind her. “Not exactly how I imagined you spending your first day off in weeks, but I'm trying not to take it personally.”

“Hardly an orchard, Miss Fisher,” came Jack's wry reply from amongst the branches. “It is just the one tree.”

Phryne deposited the basket on a small iron table near the back door, then walked back to the ladder, angling her sunhat back so she could see up into the tree. 

As Jack's backside started to descend the rungs, Phryne couldn't help a delicious grin. _Top two, even,_ she thought to herself. He was sweaty, dishevelled and _beautiful_. He had on a loose linen shirt, open to mid-chest, and brown braces buttoned to his trousers. His hair seemed free of his usual firm pomade, and flopped down onto his tanned forehead, making him appear years younger than she'd ever seen him. 

Her grin widened as he turned to look at her, grabbing a handkerchief from his waistband and wiping his hands on it.

“Miss Fisher,” he smirked, as though he could see every naughty thought in her head. 

“Jack, shouldn't you be resting? I mean, I'm all for a man at work,” she gave a thinly veiled glance down his frame and back up, “but isn't the point of today so you can gather your strength? After all, there may be occasion in the near future when you might require... stamina.” Phryne's eyes were dancing behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses, and he knew it. 

“True,” said Jack, moving past her to the little table and placing the rag on the edge. “But a man has untold duties, Miss Fisher, and not all of them are best served with rest. This tree, for instance, cannot go another day to be tended to. Her fruit is luscious and ripe and ready, and simply must be gathered immediately, or risk it withering away in waste.”

Phryne wasn't fast enough to hide the shock from her face. _Ready to ignite indeed,_ she thought, schooling her features into more Phryne Fisher-like insouciance. But perhaps Jack hadn't meant his words to sound so overtly... sexual?

She allowed a tilt of her head, and a glance at Jack over her glasses. He was leaning back against the table, arms folded across his broad chest, a look of absolute mischief in his blue eyes.

Oh. How. Delightful.

Phryne sashayed towards him, swinging her hips more than was strictly necessary, coming to rest with her hands on his chest. 

“Well, I'm sure there are plenty of roguish scavengers ready to pounce on such lovely bounty, Inspector, long before the fruit would wither on the tree.” She could give at least as good as she got.

“Touché, Miss Fisher,” Jack murmured, as he lowered his face to hers for a kiss, keeping his hands away from her sheer white dress. “I'll just have to be attentive, won't I?”

She grinned. 

“Are you still planning on joining me for dinner, Inspector, or will you have your hands full of impatient ripe fruit?”

Jack's mouth barely quirked.

“Well, Miss Fisher, I had planned on it. After all, I'm fairly sure this shouldn't take all day.” He tilted his head. “Did you drive all the way out here to secure my already confirmed attendance?”

“Jack. Please. I merely heard you had finally been granted some downtime, and wanted to make sure you were using it to the best end.” She batted her eyelashes. “Eating for instance. Mrs. Collins' occasional attentions notwithstanding, when did you last have a decent meal?”

He smiled sheepishly and rubbed a dirty hand through his hair. 

“I will admit, the contents of this basket smell sinfully good, and I may or may not have eaten yet today. Thank you.”

Phryne smiled broadly, and moved to the table to unpack the hamper. 

“Good then. Go wash, and bring us out a couple of glasses, will you?” 

Jack disappeared into the house, and Phryne very nearly giggled with delight. It seemed her time away had propelled them into a different stratosphere altogether, and one she very much liked. Jack Robinson had been full-tilt flirting with her! And as much as she loved that – and oh, did she love that – she also loved the rest: the fact that whene she was with him, there was never anywhere else she'd rather be. 

“Somewhat improved?” Jack's voice brought her back to the moment as he emerged from the house, folding one cuff on his shirt down over his now clean wrist. 

“Jack, we're in your own garden and you are gardening; casual is more than apropos. Besides, never button up on my account.” She winked.

Frowning good-naturedly, he acquiesced, rolling the sleeve back up his tanned forearm. 

Phryne piled cold chicken, potato salad and pickled carrots onto a plate for Jack, and made a smaller plate for herself. Jack poured cold lemonade from a bottle in the basket into two glasses, and they sat in the wire chairs under the eave of the house. 

“It really is a lovely garden, Jack,” Phryne said, her eyes taking in the various areas of the yard. There was a raised bed planted with all manner of greens, and a climbing fence of beans and peas. Around the perimeter were several deep beds of blossoms, mostly roses, with day lilies, clematis and several varieties of salvia filling in the gaps. 

The peach tree was truly glorious, and she could smell the ripe fruit mingled with the scent of late-season roses. 

“The tree was a originally a cutting from my aunt's garden,” said Jack between mouthfuls. “It's moved with me twice now. I was worried it would suffer with the last move, but it's thriving.” 

“Jack Robinson, am I going to have to compete with a peach tree for your affections?” Phryne's red lips curled into a smile as she surveyed him over the top of her sunglasses.

He paused. 

“Well,” he began, setting down his fork and resting his elbows on the table, his hands locked together in the air, “unless you can tempt me with something equally ripe, and sweet, and soft... then perhaps you will.”

He held her stunned gaze for a moment longer before casually going back to his lunch.

Phryne sat back, then slowly removed her sunglasses and hat, replacing the pin into the red grosgrain band and smoothing her hair. 

“I think you'd better introduce me to the competition, Jack. After all, a woman has the right to see what she's up against.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he touched his napkin to the side of his mouth. “Very well, Miss Fisher, come and judge for yourself.”

He rose, offering his hand, and she accepted. Jack's fingers interlaced with hers as they walked across the small lawn, and her pulse quickened as she felt his thumb sweep circles over her palm.

When they reached the tree, Jack reached up for a low-hanging branch and bent it down towards Phryne. 

“Phryne Fisher, may I present _Prunus Persica_.” 

Phryne smiled and tipped her head, playing along. 

“When perfectly ripe, the fruit will be full and round, and relatively weighty for its size.” Jack pointed to one particular peach, hovering just between them on the suspended branch. 

“The white flesh will be sweet and perfumed, and and will be heavy with juice, with almost no trace of acidity.” His eyes had darkened slightly, and he held Phryne's gaze. 

She swallowed. “And how do you know when they're at their peak?”

Jack looked back to the fruit. “The skin will be velvet-soft, and yield to the most tender touch. When picking, care must be taken so as not to bruise the delicate flesh.” 

It occurred to Phryne right then that a) she had obviously not being paying enough attention to the sensual potential of her own garden, and b) she was being expertly seduced with fruit, which was maybe a first.

She moved closer to Jack, reaching her own hand up underneath the peach, letting its warm weight rest in her palm. 

She hummed seductively. “Heavy, round, velvety skin.... yielding yet.... firm,” she said, looking now at Jack. “Funny, reminds me of something, though I can't quite place it...”

The corner of Jack's mouth tilted up. “Perhaps it will come to you later, Miss Fisher.”

“I'm counting on it, Inspector...”

Jack's eyes flickered down to her lips, and she noticed him lick his own unconsciously.

“So, Jack, do I dare?” she asked, her fingers beginning to close around the fruit.

He gave a hint of a smile at the reference, then nodded. She wrapped her long fingers around the peach, almost surrounding it. Instead of plucking it, though, she slowly drew her fingers up and down several times, caressing it. 

A deep, almost inaudible moan escaped Jack, and without looking at him, Phryne smiled. Finally, she gave her wrist a small, slow twist, and the peach came away from the stem. Jack released the branch carefully, and let his hands hang loose at his sides. 

“Smell it,” he rumbled. 

Phryne brought the stem end of the fruit to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Her eyes closed of their own volition, her senses full of the intoxicating aroma. 

“Ohhh,” she murmured. “It's heavenly.”

“Here,” said Jack lowly, and she felt his large fingers cover hers around the peach, gently turning it so there was a free side facing her mouth.

“The fruit is the most luscious on the day it's picked, when it's still warm from the sun,” he whispered. “Bite, Phryne.”

She shivered. She had heard all manner of words being spoken by Jack's glorious voice (and imagined all manner more), but these, she thought, might be the most erotic of all. Her core pulsed with arousal.

Phryne kept her eyes closed, heightening the sensation of warm velvet skin under her fingers and Jack's rough hands over them. Licking her lips, she leaned forward and closed her mouth around the flesh. As soon as her teeth burst the skin, her mouth was flooded with an impossible sweetness, the taste of honey and sunshine and something even more sensual. She felt fat beads of juice begin to run down her chin, gooseflesh breaking out in their path. She heard Jack's breath catch tellingly, and felt his fingers flex over hers.

She swallowed, humming softly. “It _is_ heaven.”

Jack tilted the peach away from them and leaned in, wrapping his other hand around her head to settle in the short hair at her nape. Then his mouth was on hers, barely touching at first, his tongue tracing the sweetness on her lips before plunging into her mouth. She moaned, eyes still closed, and twisted her fingers in his hair. 

“So sweet, Phryne...” Jack's voice was not much more than a growl, and she pressed closer against him. Gently, he pulled back from the kiss, and her eyes opened in time to see him tilt his head down, bringing his tongue to the trail of juice now nearly to her collarbone. He licked and suckled at the path, and she sighed his name.

“More,” she breathed.

“God yes.”

Again she bit into the fruit, and as soon as she swallowed, his tongue slipped over, around, into her mouth, the sticky-sweet nectar painting their lips and throats. They took turns tasting the fruit and each other, until there was only about a quarter of the cream coloured flesh left on the rosy stone. 

“Yours,” Phryne whispered, her eyes dark and heavy. They were both nearly panting, hair mussed and tangled with juice, mouths glistening and pink. She was pressed up against Jack's waist, and could feel the hard length of him though her silk dress. She briefly hoped Jack didn't have a housekeeper around today, because as far as she was concerned, there was only one way this afternoon was ending and wasn't making jam.

Jack shook his head. “Better,” he said, taking the peach from her hand and gently encouraging her to tilt her neck back, supporting her head in his large palm. Holding the fruit inches above her chest, he began to squeeze, and Phryne felt her nipples harden in a rush as the warm droplets hit her skin. She drew in a sharp breath, and closed her eyes as she felt more of the juice start to run down her collarbone and into the cleft between her breasts. 

“Yes Jack,” she breathed.

He swirled his tongue, warmer even than the fruit and every bit as wet, over her clavicle, flicking it into the hollow at her throat, and she exhaled an uncharacteristic whimper. He followed the trail of syrup over the mounds of her breasts, finally burying his face in her cleavage, his hands (having discarded the pulp and pit on the ground) holding her up along her back. She could feel the vibrations of his moans through her skin, and suddenly needed the barriers of clothing to be gone. His fingers were rough as he drew the neckline of her dress and camisole down. When his lips closed around one firm, erect nipple, his teeth grazing it just shy of too hard before he retreated to lave the velvet skin of her breast, she felt a quick grasping release between her thighs. 

“God Jack...” She tilted her head back up to level, and ran her hands down his firm chest, her fingers beginning to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt. “I need you. Now. Say yes...”

“You daft woman,” he answered, breathing a small laugh into her hair. “As if I could say anything but.”

His hand came up to draw her chin up towards him, his eyes warm and intense.

“Are you ready, Phryne? For this? All of this?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands straying lower to squeeze his bottom. She reached up to press her lips to his, tasting the lingering sweetness. 

“In every possible way, Jack.”

His smile was full and tender for a moment before he swung forward to scoop her up into his arms.

“Then, Miss Fisher, I'm happy to tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, you'll find no competition from the peach tree. I deem you well and truly the winner.”

Phryne tossed her head back and laughed as Jack made for the back door of the cottage.

“Well, Inspector, I believe I am entitled to my spoils. Lead on, my valiant orchardist. I think you'll find the sweetest fruit has yet to be tasted...”


End file.
